The Problem With Hunters
by Ariathel
Summary: Spencer runs across a hunt he can't handle. He gets put in touch with someone who can take care of it.


Title: The Problem With Hunting

Rating: PG

Words: 919

Summary : Spencer runs across a hunt he can't handle. He gets put in touch with someone who can take care of it.

The problem with hunting was that it was a 24/7 profession. Hunters rarely kept honest work. You could drown in the obituaries, the jobs you passed up because they couldn't be completed in a weekend, or the research done from the safety of home.

It didn't stop Spencer.

The biggest hurdle to overcome was in proving himself. The first lesson he learned was that friends in the hunting world were few and _far_ in between. The few he met when they collided over a hunt sneered at him, either shouldering him out of the job, or leaving.

His first real connection came in a little package named Garth Fitzgerald – the fourth. The man fumbled through his hunts, making it to the other side by sheer unnatural luck. Desperate for a contact within the hunting world, Spencer gave the twitchy man his number – a second, prepaid cell phone, having learned his lesson after a witness called his work cell, having kept his number on her caller ID. Spencer had cursed his own stupidity, his quivering nerves on his first job, and bought the new cell the next day.

Garth returned with his own phone number with an ease that startled Spencer, though he did his best to hide it. After a successful salt and burn, Garth shrugged his shoulders, grinning over a shitty beer in a dive bar. "I'm not like the others, ya know? I don't see the point in doing this solo. I like connections."

Spencer hummed his response. He knew most hunters didn't have true homes – PO boxes scattered across the country, sometimes storage units, but it was rare to meet one with an actual bed to their own name. Because of the nature of his work, Spencer never offered up information about his home life. He couldn't afford a hunter showing up on his doorstep.

His next hunt, a demon with a fetish for gutting his victims, stumped Spencer. A weekend wasn't enough time to do all the necessary research, so he found himself driving back to Virginia in the late hours of Sunday night, unwilling to wait until the following weekend, giving the demon a chance to skip town.

He called Garth the next morning. "I've got a demon in Pennsylvania that I don't have time for. It's not going to stay long, and I don't want law enforcement involved any more than they are." He never told anyone about his day job. They thought he was a librarian, or something equally bookish, someone with a life he wasn't willing to give up, just yet.

"I'm in Portland, man, on the tail of a shifter. Tell ya what, I'll see about getting you in touch with someone who can help."

Later that afternoon, Spencer's phone rang, an unknown number popping up, caller ID labeling it as Dallas, Texas. Without a doubt, it was a prepaid cell phone, number as unremarkable as his own, easily discarded at the first hint of trouble.

Around him, his teammates worked, oblivious of the things going on right under their nose. Spencer debated answering, before going ahead and deciding that if it was Bobby, it was in his best interest to pick up now. He'd only heard of the man once or twice. Garth advised him not to piss off the "ol' bastard," with a grin across his features. Spencer had no doubt that Garth did just that, on a regular basis.

"Spencer," he said, as a greeting. Morgan shot him a curious glance as he stood, leaving the room. He felt eyes tracking his path as he stepped into an empty briefing room, lights dimmed and whiteboard still covered with the scribbles of what looked to be a White Collar case.

"Garth says you got a hunt you can't handle."

"Yes, sir," Spencer murmured, shutting the door gently behind him. He shot a bland smile to Emily as she walked by, mug of coffee steaming lazily in her hands. It would be a long night, wrapping up the tail ends of last week's case.

"Speak, boy, I ain't got all day."

Spencer laughed, quickly.

"A demon, up in Sandy, Pennsylvania. It's a tiny little town, four deaths in the past two weeks. The DuBois police are calling it an animal attack. Gutting seems to be its' MO. I found sulfur residue at three of the four sites."

Bobby remained silent for a moment, and Spencer waited with drawn in breath for the man to speak.

"Got it. Why the hell can't you handle this? Garth says you're a good hunter, but coming from that numskull, don't mean much."

"I've got a day job," Spencer replied, restlessly shrugging his shoulders, letting the slight jab pass. "Kind of thing you don't just drop. Haven't been doing this more than six months"

"Course not," Bobby muttered. A few more seconds of silence came, before Bobby cleared his throat. "Got it, kid. I'll get someone on it. Got a pair finishing up a rogue vamp," he cut himself off. "We'll take care of it."

Before Spencer could thank the man, he heard the click of a phone hanging up.

He let out a slow breath. For some reason, he'd expected more of a grilling from the old man. Though, he suspected Bobby would look into this hunt with detail, unwilling to trust a stranger's word alone.

Spencer stepped from the room, phone silent and slipped into his pocket.

"Got a hot new girlfriend?" Morgan teased as Spencer slid into his seat.

He rolled his eyes, before bending over his work.


End file.
